


Arthur Weasley and Vernon Dursley watch the World Cup

by Several_Severus_Stories



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Beer, Fatherhood, Fifa world cup 1998, Football | Soccer, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Muggle Culture, Muggle Life, Muggle Technology, Muggle/Wizard Relations, Parenthood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-09-02 08:28:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16783336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Several_Severus_Stories/pseuds/Several_Severus_Stories
Summary: Harry persuades Vernon to allow Arthur Weasley to come over and watch England play Argentina in the 1998 FIFA World Cup, about a month after the Battle of Hogwarts.





	Arthur Weasley and Vernon Dursley watch the World Cup

“I still don’t see why he has to come here,” griped Uncle Vernon. “Don’t your lot take care of their own?”

They were back at number four Privet Drive. Members of the Order had helped restore it and moved the Dursleys back in after the Battle of Hogwarts. Despite knowing that he could walk out the door at any time he pleased, and go back to his own house, Harry still couldn’t relax in this house.

“’My lot’, as you insist on calling them, looked after the three of you for months on end, in addition to taking care of our own,” Harry argued. “Arthur Weasley is a broken man. He lost his son in battle, a battle that Arthur himself was involved in, and he’s barely spoken for the past month. Coming and experiencing Mu- I mean, your world, might help him.”

Vernon grunted.

“Look,” said Harry, “I’m not asking you to do much. And I promise it won’t be like other times – he’ll dress, um, normally. He won’t do anything… unusual. And I’ll bring him to the front door myself.”

“Good,” Vernon sniped. “I’m not having the living room destroyed again.”

“So he can come and watch the football with you tomorrow night?”

“I suppose so,” said Vernon.

“Thank you,” said Harry. The words felt strange to him; he’d never had a reason to sincerely thank his uncle before.

The next evening found Arthur Weasley and Harry walking in silence to the front door of number four Privet Drive. As Harry had promised, Arthur was suitably attired in jeans, trainers, and an England football shirt. Harry knocked on the door, which was promptly opened by Petunia Dursley. Harry knew that his aunt must have been watching out of the window, waiting for them to arrive so she could quickly usher them inside, out of sight of the neighbours. “Vernon and Dudley are in the living room,” she said with a strained smile as she showed them through.

Vernon and Dudley were sat on the sofa. Vernon looked up as Harry and Arthur entered the room, and gestured towards the armchair. “Take a seat,” he said. “Beer?” Vernon held out an unopened can.

“Thank you,” Arthur managed as he sat down. He took the can, but didn’t open it. He stared vacantly at the television.

“I’ll be off then,” said Harry, and he walked out of the room.

Vernon heard the front door close and realised that he and Dudley were alone with this strange man. This man, what was his name – Arthur, that was it – had once destroyed Vernon’s living room, given Dudley a long purple tongue, and hadn’t even had the decency to teach his son to use the telephone properly (who had once called asking for Harry Potter). At least tonight he was dressed normally – if you passed him in the street, you wouldn’t think that he was one of _those_ people. And yet, as the television presenters chattered on in the pre-match analysis which usually captivated Vernon’s attention, and as Dudley loudly chomped his way through a family-sized bag of crisps beside him, Vernon couldn’t take his eyes off this strange man with the fading ginger hair. Arthur really was, as the boy had put it, a broken man.

“England versus Argentina tonight,” Vernon ventured. Football – that was a safe subject. A decent, masculine topic. “The world cup, and England are through to the quarter-finals. I just hope we don’t crash out on penalty shootouts like we have done before. We haven’t won the world cup since 1966, it’s about time we did it again.”

They sat in silence as the teams filed out onto the pitch and the national anthems were sung. Dudley shouted along to “God Save the Queen”, raising a beer to the television screen as the stadium crowd in France cheered at the end. The silence didn’t last long. Vernon and Dudley howled as barely five minutes in, the Argentine player Simeone was awarded a penalty, then groaned as Batistuta used it to score a goal.

“Um… that didn’t seem very fair,” Arthur offered quietly.

 _My eyes, this man isn’t the sharpest tool in the shed_ , Vernon thought to himself. “It’s these ruddy South Americans, they don’t play fair,” he growled.

Arthur sipped his beer. When Michael Owen won a penalty for England, Vernon and Dudley cheered, and Arthur let out a quiet “Yes!”

“Now keep your eyes on the screen,” Vernon instructed Arthur. “This is Alan Shearer taking the penalty for us. Watch and learn, my man, watch and learn.” Even Arthur cheered as Shearer scored the goal – not as loudly as Vernon and Dudley, but he still cheered.

Vernon nodded in approval. If the man could enjoy football, maybe he was tolerable. _Unlike that berk in the top hat who had been assigned to protect the family… Dedalus Diggle – honestly, what a ridiculous name. At least this Arthur could act halfway normal_. When Michael Owen scored his own goal, Arthur clapped. Things were looking good, Vernon decided. 2-1 up, and finally he’d found one of those people who could act normally, and enjoy normal things.

It all went well until the first minute of injury/extra time, when Argentina scored again, bringing the score to 2-2.

“We can still win,” Vernon insisted over half time, as they ate burgers and hot dogs which Petunia had brought in for them. (She disappeared back into the kitchen, taking a collection of empty beer cans and crisp packets with her.) “We’ve got good players on our team – Alan Shearer, Michael Owen, David Beckham – we know they can score goals.”

Arthur wiped his fingers on a napkin, having just finished a burger. “Mr Dursley,” he said quietly, “I want to thank you for tonight. Since losing my son…” his eyes welled up with tears. Vernon and Dudley sat awkwardly, unsure of how to comfort a crying man. Arthur composed himself. “Well… being at home or at work, everything in the wizarding world” – Vernon winced “- just reminds me of him. It’s been a relief to just escape for a little while, to focus on something else.”

“No parent should have to lose a child,” Vernon agreed gruffly. Relief washed over him as the screen showed the players filing back out onto the pitch. Phew – he could lose himself in the second half. Vernon’s relief was even shorter-lived than his silence at the beginning of the first half. Just two minutes into the second half of the game, he and Dudley roared in outrage as David Beckham was sent off with a red card, leaving England down to just ten men. “You fool!” Vernon shouted at the television.

Arthur bit his lip, unsure if he’d read the situation properly. “Who’s the fool?” he asked quietly. “And what was the red card about?”

“David Beckham,” said Vernon, still glaring at the screen. “He should have kept his temper in check. Now because he had to kick that Argentine player, we’re a man down, which gives Argentina the advantage. A red card means a player has done something wrong, and that they’re being sent off.”

“Wow,” marvelled Arthur. “We don’t send players off in Quidditch.” Then, feeling the heat of Vernon’s glare on him, he ventured, “but this is football, so of course that’s irrelevant.”

Vernon grunted. Down to ten men, England tightened up their defence, and Vernon explained the tactics to Arthur.

Then extra time came.

Then…

“Penalty shootout,” Vernon and Dudley groaned in unison, slumping back on the sofa in misery.

“What’s so bad about a penalty shootout?” Arthur asked obliviously.

“England always lose on penalties,” Vernon explained morosely. “Not to mention, David Beckham is one of our best, so without him we’re screwed.”

The penalty shootout was tense, as it always would be for England fans. In the end, Vernon’s prediction was right: England lost on penalties, scoring three, while Argentina scored four. Dudley left in disgust, telling Vernon he was off to meet his friends at the pub to drown his sorrows.

So Vernon found himself alone with Arthur, and started as he realised that Arthur was crying again. He stifled a groan; he wasn’t into all this namby-pamby touchy-feely emotional stuff. “It… it must have been terrible,” Vernon said gruffly. “Losing your son in battle, I mean. Like I said, no parent should have to lose a child.”

Arthur managed a weak, tearful smile, grateful for the other man’s company. “Well… I know it was a battle we had to fight,” he tried, “but that doesn’t make it any easier.”

“Of course not,” Vernon said, keeping his eyes on the television screen. “I live for my son. I couldn’t imagine losing him.”

“We lost a lot of good people, of course,” said Arthur. “And Harry – Harry was instrumental in the victory. We couldn’t have won it without him.”

“Er… yes,” said Vernon. “That Dedalus Diggle character, the one in the top hat, he read stuff to us from your newspaper afterwards.” Of course, Vernon hadn’t really paid attention to the ridiculous little man’s inane chattering, but even Vernon wasn’t going to be so rude to a grieving father. Vernon stood up, holding his beer. Then, in a move that surprised even himself, he recited the fourth stanza of Binyon’s famous “For the Fallen” poem. He raised his can, encouraged Arthur to do the same, and they drank to all those who had lost their lives in battle.

“That was brilliant,” Arthur managed to say. Vernon’s words had touched him. Who knew that beneath the bold, brash exterior lay a sensitive man with heartfelt words?

“I wear my poppy with pride every November,” Vernon said proudly as he sat down. “Nobody can say I don’t honour our war dead.” _Does this stupid man not even know one of the most famous poems in England’s history?_ Vernon wondered incredulously.

“Right,” said Arthur, unaware of the Muggle custom Harry’s uncle was referring to. Better to just smile and nod, so as not to offend a host who had been so good to him. “Well, thank you very much for tonight,” he said. “I think I must be going now, Arabella Figg will be expecting me at her house.”

Vernon showed Arthur to the door, then closed the door in relief as the other man walked along the road. Hopefully the boy wouldn’t ask Vernon to host any more of his strange acquaintances. He could go back to his normal, everyday life.


End file.
